"The dogs were a kind of love, given freely to men."

This sentence exists in the manuscript of the second book of a trilogy that began with How the Dead Dream, published this January. The second book, Ghost Lights, and the sentence in particular extend my animal obsession, which I craftily hand to my protagonists like a hot potato. Where the first book sees endangered species, the second book sees dogs and tells about an IRS man named Hal who gets the idea that his wife is cheating on him and runs screaming into the forest. In this trilogy, everyone runs screaming into the forest. In fact, it might be said that in all the books I write these days, someone runs screaming into the forest. For me, the end of a book basically has to consist of a person running screaming into the forest.

I think I've been pretty clear on that point.

Dogs enter into things in several forms. First, there's the dog of Hal's wife's employer, a three-legged dog that has been left in a kennel while the employer -- T., the young real-estate shark from the first book -- disappears on a trip to the tropics. Then there are dog metaphors and the dogs of strangers. Dogs licking blood as it flows out of wounds. I can't get enough of dogs. Hal can't get enough of dogs. We can't get enough of dogs.

I wrote the sentence along with several others in a 34-foot Airstream, which belongs to the outfit I work for. It sits in the parking lot, hooked up to the building, and my husband and I sit inside with our laptops and newborn. The benefit of the Airstream, besides the silver curviness, is that it gives us privacy. Nursing, crying, diapers. These days I write my sentences when I can snatch a few seconds of peace, seconds that are not filled with nursing, crying or diapers. The Airstream has about it a kind of legendary quality that lets us think someone is watching our lives even as we go about the private business of, say, diapering -- the Airstream imbues normal life with moviedom. For some reason that puts us in a good mood. It also makes me feel I may still be in my twenties. Sometimes I look in the mirror in the Airstream and try to catch my face in a good light. It's not easy.

Anyway, inside the office building into which the Airstream is plugged there are a number of dogs -- formerly almost a pack of them. But lately the dog population has diminished. It's a dog-friendly office, but despite that, the dog population is plummeting. People leave, and their dogs go with them. In this particular office there was a small rat terrier named Lou, and her owner got married to a masseuse-yoga teacher-photographer and moved to Oregon. There was a kind of shepherd-type dog named Windy, and the couple that owned her moved to Sacramento. As soon as they got there, their car was stolen. Or broken into. Not clear. There were other dogs and other owners. But now there are only Sierra and Niko and Walter. Sierra barks at children. Doesn't like 'em. Doesn't trust 'em. Not one bit. Walter is very old and ponderous and walks extremely slowly. He barks not at children but at me. Hasn't taken to me. Probably never will. Niko likes everyone and is covered with cysts. Non-malignant.

So as I was writing the sentence, I was thinking of all these dogs, as well as my own dog, a pug, which is essentially banned from the office for heavy breathing. My own dog, the pug and heavy breather, creates disruption. As soon as she comes in she gets overstimulated. The presence of the other dogs is too much for her, she goes all crazy with excitement, and that's when she starts the heavy breathing. The breathing is very loud. It's like a constant obscene phonecall. Everyone in the office, which is more or less one of those open-plan dealies, feels like they're getting an obscene phone call from my dog. It's pretty embarrassing. If it stopped after a few minutes it would be one thing, but it goes on for hours. So my dog is basically banned.

As I was writing the sentence, I thought of my pug who wants nothing more than love and does not get enough of it. She does not get enough love for various reasons, including but not limited to the heavy breathing. I was thinking of the strangeness and holiness of the pretty-much unconditional affection of dogs. How many people must see God that way, the ambient love of the universe, which comes to them whether they deserve it or not. I'm not going to go the route of commenting on the whole dog-is-God-backwards-thing, I'm not going to stoop that low. But I think you get me.